


We are the universe experiencing itself

by Crab_Lad



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League: Doom, Superman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Buried Alive, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Movie: Justice League: Doom, Multi, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crab_Lad/pseuds/Crab_Lad
Summary: Most nights he startles awake from his nightmares, forcing himself to pull out of his murky subconscious to escape the horrors that plague him. Tonight, it's different. Trying to struggle through his dream is like wading through molasses, air thin and the smell of dirt, death, rotting filling his nose. It's too silent, even his screams are muted, fists banging but no sound coming through. All he sees is the hallow look in that skull's eyes, boring into him with anger, disappointment, and disgust.Spoilers for Justice League: Doom
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman) & Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman)/Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	We are the universe experiencing itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forestgreengirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestgreengirl/gifts).



> for my bro seph uwu

Most nights he startles awake from his nightmares, forcing himself to pull out of his murky subconscious to escape the horrors that plague him. Tonight, it's different. Trying to struggle through his dream is like wading through molasses, air thin and the smell of _dirt, death, rotting_ filling his nose. It's too silent, even his screams are muted, fists banging but no sound coming through. All he sees is the hallow look in that skull's eyes, boring into him with anger, disappointment, and disgust. 

When he does wake, it's not with a start. It's a slow gradual climb to consciousness. The bony hand of the skeleton wraps around him, soon replaced by one of flesh and blood. The dark silk of the coffin fades into something lighter, softer, less firm. The top expands, taller and wider until it's the dark ceiling of his room. Diana's nowhere to be found, not in the room. Clark, though, is the one curled around him, chasing away the coldness of his bones with the sun powered heat of the Kryptonian. 

The clock down the hall ticks in a steady pattern, almost matching his heart rate. Two beats pass before one tick, steady and constant. Clark lets out a sigh next to him, burrowing his face into his pillow. Crickets chirp outside, low and soft in the night. Still the silence is deafening, much too quiet yet much too loud. Bruce's hands ache with phantom pain, yet they appear whole, healthy. Scarred from the keys digging in, but healed. 

Bruce exhales, shifting in Clark's arms to put space between them. The cold air invades, unwelcome yet necessary as Bruce slips his feet off the side of the bed and into the slippers he keeps waiting there. He's bare, save for a pair of boxers, so he snatches one of Clark's sweatshirts the man keeps laying around the room. Bruce slides it on, welcoming the soft cotton and the warmth it brings. It smells like Clark, lingering scents of paper, ink, coffee and a hint of farmland. It's nice, in honesty, even if Bruce won't admit it. 

Silently as he can, Bruce ignores the heaviness in his bones and steps out of the room. The manor is drafty, with it's long halls and large windows. It's enough that Bruce considers turning back for some pants, but in the end decides to keep going. He'll snatch a blanket from the parlor, so he's warm when he reaches his destination. He passes by Alfred and Damian's rooms on the way, pausing at his son's to listen to him sleep. Ace and Titus sit on the boys bed like guardians, and Bruce can't help but smile when Ace looks up at him. It isn't until she puts her head back down does he continue on. 

The moon shines through the many windows, casting eerie shadows on the busts and sculptures Bruce kept and collected in honor of his parents. They used to be a source of pride, showing how well he took care of them. But now, in the night, they are nothing but ghosts. Tall and long, leering and taunting. Bruce ignores them, hating how the Manor seems to go on forever, until he reaches the stairs. 

It's such a careful silence as he descends into the parlor, ignoring Tim's empty room across the hall. Bruce takes the red blanket from the couch, draping it across his arm as he steps out into the night. The air is crisper on the outside, the faint smell of incoming fall. He can smell the ocean from here as well, the wind carrying the salt and sea across the city. Quietly, he trudges down to the graveyard, careful and cautious of the many ancestors buried there. The long forgotten Waynes, bitter and old, nothing but dust in the ground, are not his destination. No, he has only one thing in mind, needing to know that the graves are okay. 

_Thomas Wayne_

_Beloved Father and Husband_

_Martha Wayne_

_Beloved Mother and Wife_

He slides to the ground, just slightly to the left to avoid the ~~still fresh~~ dirt. The grass welcomes him with drops of dew, fading into the fabric of his clothes. The blanket lays forgotten to the side, as Bruce takes a moment to _breathe,_ crisp and clean. He ignores the half destroyed tombstone to his left, broken with a hammer and nothing but crumpled stone. There's nothing readable on the face of it, or what's left of the face, except _"son"._

Bruce loses track of how long he's there for, the moon unmoving in the sky, even as the first rays of sunlight start filtering through the clouds at the horizon. It could have been minutes- hours. Bruce doesn't care. Bats- or birds, he can't tell the difference unless he's paying attention- swoop over head, catching early morning bugs. The little sun that shines through the usual Gotham smog isn't enough to warm him.

"How long have you been out here?" a quiet voice asks, graceful and kind, yet powerful and fierce.

Bruce looks at Diana, noting Clarking coming out the front door with a jacket of his own, and shrugs. He doesn't feel like talking, doesn't want to talk about the nightmare or what Bane did. There's nothing _to_ talk about. There are worse things in his life that Bruce has experienced, he's not sure why this one, meesley, thing is stuck to his mind like glue. Diana sighs behind him, dropping down to sit next to him. She's still wearing her armour, so she must have been on a mission. Not that he minds, he's not part of the Justice League anymore, he doesn't care what they do. But he still missed her during the night. 

Clark drops down to his otherside, picks up the discarded blanket and wraps it around Bruce. It's not one of their best blankets, scratchy and rough, but... the gesture is sweet. The three remain silent as Bruce watches the way the sun lights the graves, casting half of them into shadows, while highlighting the rest. The words dance across the face, dark and light in a constant battle for dominance. 

Then there's a hand in his hair, calloused and firm, yet gentle and soft. Diana's always been that way, something delicate but unbreakable. It's what he loves about her, how she's conflicting but not conflicted. It's a nice difference from Clark who always is steady and strong. That's what Bruce loves about Clark too, his one way uncomplicated nature. The man is black and white, sometimes Bruce is grateful for that, other's annoyed. But, he loves them both _so so_ much because they are his rocks in the wild sea of turmoil. 

Alfred would always be his number one support pillar, but it's hard to have foundation without several supports. It's why he crumpled so bad after Jason, why Dick's leaving had hurt. If it wasn't for Diana and Clark, even as friends back then, Bruce wouldn't have made it to now. No, Bruce would have gotten so reckless he would have died in an alley like his parents. 

Clark presses a kiss to his forehead, pulling Bruce closer to him as Diana slides behind, shifting so her legs curl behind her. She leans her head on Clark's shoulder, pressing her nose into Bruce's hair. She doesn't stop petting him, and Clark doesn't stop his smooth motions along Bruce's body, both serving to relax the man. Years ago this would've been a fight, but they've learned to read him, and he's learned to let them in.

"They'd be proud of you," Clark murmurs, nosing at the side of Bruce's hair. He doesn't understand their obsession with his hair, there's nothing special about it. 

Bruce is too tired to respond with anything but a monotone, "No. They wouldn't."

"They would," it's Diana who argues this time, "I may not have known them, little bat, but I know that I am proud of you. They would have been too." 

Bruce has many arguments on the tip of his tongue, but he finds he doesn't want to fight the sentiment now, so he settles with, "I'm not little."

As it usually goes, Diana has the rebuttal already equipped, "To me you are. My little bat." 

She sounds so extremely smug, but he just makes a note to make the platforms in his Batsuit higher, just to retaliate. Clark lets out a huffing laugh into his hair, pressing a kiss right on the shell of his ear. 

"We're here for you, B, if you need us."

Grumbling in response, Bruce falls silent. There's nothing he needs to add there, they've learned to read him enough that he doesn't have to. 

It doesn't stop him from worrying, remembering the green bullet wedged into Clark's chest, the mask on his face to keep him breathing. He hates to think what would have happened to Diana without Cyborg, fighting and hurting until her heart gave out. He had been close to losing them both, but now-

Now, he just leans into them both, letting his eyes fall shut as the first rays of sunlight touch his face. 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is crablad !!


End file.
